our lips were separate countries;

the space between them when we paused and lingered barely touching was the ocean that he tried to cross in order to understand how deep my sadness sank

he dragged his fingertips along the ridges of seven bracelets I had stacked against my right wrist to hide all the times I could not cope

he painted nebulas on my shoulders and drew galaxies from my neck with his mouth, the kinds of bruises that let you know your skin is real, your skin was touched

teeth collided and I felt less lonely at the sound because we were connected at the roots

his thumb stroking my cheek